A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. She was to have fifteen pounds, and no more. Lucy stared out to the busy streets beyond. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. It slipped out—as did that “she”.
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